


Elegy, Eulogy, and the Vancouver Canucks

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, characters with disabilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-10
Updated: 2006-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It bothers Joe that Methos doesn't say anything about the deaths of his lovers, particularly now that he's one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy, Eulogy, and the Vancouver Canucks

February 10, 1997

I'm starting to think if I ever want to have my entire self-chronicle on a computer, I'll have to ~~sucker some poor fool into helping transcribe it~~ find someone I trust to help get it typed in. On one hand, we all know how much less secure things are when they can't simply be burnt and destroyed for all time; on the other hand, a search feature would save me _years_ in the long run. And what am I but a fan of the long run?

There's not many people I'd trust to help with a project like this one, though. Only one that I can think of off-hand, and whether he'll say yes or not is anyone's guess. Maybe if I bribe him with a look at the whole thing (at least the parts he _can_ read -- damn, I'm going to have to do all the ancient Greek myself)...

* * *

Breakfast in bed was a thing of beauty, and something Joe wasn't all that accustomed to. Five thousand years hadn't turned Methos into a morning person; breakfast -- and more importantly, coffee -- was usually the province of whoever's bladder needed attention first. In fairness to Methos, it was him more often than not, but that didn't explain _this_.

"Omelette, bacon, you buttered my toast for me -- what's this all about?" Joe asked, fluffing his pillow and sitting up. "God, the coffee smells good, too."

"It does, doesn't it?" Methos grinned and sat down crosslegged, across the tray from Joe. "Hope you don't mind if I nibble at your bacon. I did make extra for just such an occasion."

"Don't mind a bit; help yourself." Joe tried to think about the date -- an anniversary? Nah, not this early in the year. "Seriously, it's going to drive me nuts trying to figure out what's going on. What did I forget?"

"You didn't forget anything. I'm going to ask you a really big favor."

"Uh-oh. Does it involve killing anybody?"

"Nope."

"Getting arrested?"

"Doubtful."

"Am I going to lose one of my few remaining limbs doing it?"

"Not a chance."

"Then I'm all yours. What's on the agenda?"

"Me."

"I like the sound of this already." Joe grinned. "What do you mean by 'you'?"

"Well, having finally embraced the computer age, I've got one hell of a lot of journal entries that need to be transcribed. There's not a lot of people I'd trust to help with it, but you -- I thought maybe..." Methos gave him a somewhat sheepish grin. "It's a huge job; I'll understand if you don't want to help."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'll help."

"You realize there's going to be a lot of less-than-pleasant subject material..."

"Ooh, the sordid past of the world's oldest Immortal." Joe smirked, and Methos rolled his eyes at him.

"My past isn't half as sordid as you think."

"Well, if it's only a quarter as sordid as I think, I'll still have things to jerk off to for a year." Joe smirked across the tray at Methos. The smirk didn't get a witticism in return, though, and Joe sobered quickly. "Sorry -- I'm kidding, you know that, right? I'd do it just as a favor, no monkey business involved."

"I was just thinking that there's a lot of sordid things in there you're _not_ going to want to jerk off to," Methos said, and lowering his voice, mumbled, "even if I did, at the time."

"Hey." Joe leaned forward and reached across the tray, catching one of Methos's hands. "Stop that. Life's too short to keep beating yourself up."

"Life's too _short_?" Methos asked, finally starting to grin.

"Yeah. Even for you, life's too short." Joe grinned, shrugged, sat back and poured himself another cup of coffee. "So sure, I'll help out. Where do you want me to start?"

"Hmm. You want to start at the beginning and move forward or start at the end and go back?"

"The latter. I think by the time I get to the stuff I can't read, you'll--" Joe stopped himself before he could follow _that_ sentence down any number of roads he wasn't really interested in pursuing. "Well, you'll need a new transcriptionist."

Not a very happy thought for either of them, even phrased that way; Methos made a face before taking another drink of his coffee. "Bet you don't make it a year before you want to kill me for having chicken-scratch handwriting."

"Bet I've read my way through worse," Joe said, more than willing to go for a change of subject.

"That's what you think." And finally the banter was enough to get Methos smirking again. "I used to be a doctor."

* * *

Ten years knowing the guy as Adam Pierson, only two knowing him as Methos, oldest living Immortal -- Joe had to admit he was intrigued. And part of him was nervous. Paging through back entries in Methos's computerized journal, ostensibly to see how things were formatted, Joe ran into name after familiar name, events he recognized, any number of things he'd kept notes on himself.

"What are you up to here?" Methos asked, leaning over Joe's back to see what entries had him hesitating.

"I'm earning my Watcher's merit badge in voyeurism," Joe muttered, sitting back and letting his head drop against Methos's chest. "I bet there's stuff about Kronos all over your journals."

"Much of it not particularly nice," Methos said, wrapping an arm around Joe's chest. "Are you all right doing this?"

"I'm all right, yeah -- wouldn't be _here_," and he indiciated Methos's loose embrace, "if I hadn't made my peace with you and your past. You know, there's nothing on his death, though."

"No."

"_I_ have entries on his death."

"I don't."

Joe turned halfway around so he could get a look at Methos's expression. _Poker face. Damn._ "Okay," he said softly. "I'm gonna get back to work and stop reading the stuff you've already got typed in."

"Might be for the best." Methos ducked his head down and nibbled on Joe's shoulder. "I'll be in bed if you get tired."

* * *

Joe should've figured the topic was going to come up again, especially when it came to a stack of notebooks Methos hadn't even wanted to touch. "Last year," he'd said, and after a moment spent wondering why the handwritten notebooks again -- Methos had been keeping a computerized journal for a while before last year, Joe knew -- he realized the notebooks were about Alexa. It made sense; they'd been traveling enough that a computer wouldn't have been as convenient as something he didn't have to power on or off, something that weighed ten times as much as a pen and notebook. And it was easy to figure out why he hadn't transcribed these particular entries yet. _I miss her, too, old man._

Most of the entries were sweet, some bitter, and there was a lot of anger at the fact that it wasn't fair, that there wasn't going to be enough time. _Guess he's not as stoic about everything as he wants to pretend. Kind of comforting, really._ But the journal entries stopped March 24th and didn't pick up again; by the time it was April '95, the journal entries were back on the computer.

Nothing on Alexa's death. It just felt _wrong_ to Joe, wrong enough it was worth talking to Methos about it. Methos had moved a computer into Joe's study, both of them accepting a little bit of cramped space in exchange for being near one another while they worked on Methos's old journals; tonight was one of those nights they'd ordered a pizza and Joe had a hockey game on mute while they pieced together past history.

"I think I'm missing some time."

"Oh?" Methos glanced up from his own stack of journals, flexed his fingers as he sat back. "I'm pretty sure you've got it all. What are you looking for?"

_Beat around the bush or give it to him straight out? Screw it, I'm too old to beat around the bush._ "Alexa's death. Or her burial, at least. There's _nothing_ for her in here."

"There are months of journal entries about her--"

"But not about her dying?"

"No."

There was that damned poker face again, and this time Joe didn't feel like giving up so fast. Kronos was one thing; Alexa was something else.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Joe asked quietly. "You're as much a completist as any Watcher; it's what makes you fit in so well with us. When did you start deciding it was a good idea to play selective memory games?"

"I'm not going to talk about it," Methos said. His poker face was still up and running, but his lips were getting tight in a way Joe _sometimes_ thought indicated irritation. Or something closer to anger, maybe. He'd seen that come out of tight lips a time or two. "You want to ask me something else, go right ahead."

"I'm in here, too--"

"Oh, you went looking for early Pierson entries?"

"Hey, sue me, I'm a snoop. Nice to know you were thinking about jumping me as early as I was thinking about jumping you, but let me tell you, it's going to suck when I kick off and there's not a damn word to remember me by when I go."

"There are _volumes_ to remember you by--"

"Yeah, but there's no _bookend_. No epitaph." Joe shoved his chair away from his desk and looked at Methos square-on. "Maybe you've been an Immortal so long you've forgotten how important that is to us -- being remembered, being so-to-speak 'immortalized' by our friends and loved ones, the people who are going to think about us when we're gone."

For a while, Methos didn't say anything. And then he got up from his desk and walked out the study door.

_Not fair,_ Joe thought, cursing softly and grabbing for his cane as he lurched upright. "Don't walk out on me--"

"I'm not going to fight over this, Joe. Not worth it."

"Hey, in case you hadn't noticed, it's worth it to me--" Joe made it out the door and down the hall before Methos could get his trenchcoat on, which meant he was either getting faster in his old age -- unlikely -- or Methos was slowing down so Joe could keep talking to him. That wasn't a bad sign. "Did you really think this was all going to slip under the radar? Did you think I wasn't going to notice?"

"I had hopes."

"I don't buy that." Joe shook his head. "You think things out _way_ too thoroughly to get blindsided by plain old Joe Dawson. What gives? What's the real story?"

"The real story..." Methos sighed as he tugged his trenchcoat on. "The real story is I didn't think you'd ask. I figured you'd assume I wanted to grieve in peace."

"Is that what you want?"

"What I _want_ is not to grieve at all." Methos stepped out the door, and Joe frowned after him.

"Man, you're too old to be in _that_ much denial," he muttered, and he headed for the phone. At least that way Mac would have a little warning.

* * *

"Two six-packs and some Scotch, nothing too excessive." Mac grinned at the look on Joe's face. "Not excessive for him -- you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I swear, sometimes he drives me nuts."

"Apparently the feeling's mutual." Mac held up both hands and shook his head. "Not that I don't understand where you're coming from. He drives me crazy, too."

"Yeah, but you don't live with it half the time."

"No, it just sprawls on my couch when you two are fighting." Mac took a few seconds to gather his thoughts, and Joe tried not to roll his eyes. That was a sure sign Mac was taking Methos's side; if he were on Joe's side with this one, he wouldn't need to be so cautious. "Did you know he once told me he's been married 69 times?"

"I remember hearing something about that."

"So that's not counting all the _other_ lovers he's taken. And all the other times he's been widowed... well, more or less." Joe shrugged; Mac went on. "Not everybody handles grief the same way, Joe; you know that. The closure's comforting, but it's also very final."

"That's the point."

"That's _precisely_ the point. It sticks." Mac spent another few seconds putting his thoughts in a neat, orderly line, and Joe found himself wondering -- not for the first time -- if maybe Mac's relationship with Amanda had something to do with the fact that she was _never_ this organized, let alone in her own thoughts. "Maybe he doesn't want the last thoughts he's got chronicled of any given person to be all about goodbye."

A few seconds passed, and Joe grumbled into his beer. "Man, I hate it when you make that much sense."

Mac laughed. "Fair's fair. I come to you often enough."

"True enough."

"Just do me a favor. Don't let him spend too much time on my couch, will you? Amanda's coming back in a few days."

"I'm sure neither one of us would dream of cramping your style."

"I'm sure _you_ wouldn't. Him, on the other hand..."

Joe laughed. "Good point. I'll nail him to the floor if I need to, not to worry."

* * *

It wasn't the first time they'd had a fight, so it wasn't the first time Methos came back in, hung his trenchcoat in the closet, and made himself at home like nothing had happened. Joe was sitting on the couch -- hockey on, volume turned low -- and he looked up at Methos as Methos plopped his ass down on the other end of the couch.

"Welcome back," Joe said. "Anybody out there missing a head?"

"Not on my account." Methos arched an eyebrow. "Do we get to move on with our lives now or do I have to answer more questions about eulogizing friends?"

"Nope. No more questions."

"Really." That eyebrow was already arched as far as it could go; it just held there, waiting.

Joe shook his head. "No more questions. We've got this gap, you know, you and me; I can guess what it's like to be you, I can extrapolate, I can take every detail I know about every Immortal I've ever met or watched or written an entry about, and I still don't know what it's like to fall in love knowing from the start that your days are numbered." He moved a little closer to Methos's end of the couch. "This is the way you do things. I get to figure out how to live with that."

"You are ridiculously understanding."

"I do a good job of looking like it." Joe chuckled. "I'm not all that understanding. I still think it's a shitty way to deal with things, but that's why I don't do it that way. I have journal entries for Alexa. And for all the other people I've lost. If the Game goes wrong, I could have them for Mac someday, or Richie."

"Not me?"

"You're not going anywhere." That got a grin out of Methos, and Joe went on. "And for as long as it's up to me, neither am I."

"You have a lot of faith."

"I might as well." Joe slung an arm around Methos's shoulders. "Life's too short not to."

"Life's too short," Methos murmured, shaking his head. The grin was still there. Good sign. "Does that apply to me?"

"It especially applies to you." Joe gave Methos's shoulder a light squeeze and then thumped him on the back. "Do me a favor. Get yourself a beer; get me one, too, while you're at it, and see if you can find some nachos to go with this game." He nodded at the screen. "If you still need lessons in faith, I can indoctrinate you in the lessons to be learned from the glorious sport of hockey."

"As long as it's less complicated than the glorious sport of baseball," Methos agreed, and he headed for the kitchen, grinning all the way.

_-end-_


End file.
